


Flowers in his Mane

by raiyana



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Homecoming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-22 01:35:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14297895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Lothíriel awaits the homecoming of Éomer...Basically, an excuse to write smuts based on funkytoes's art-spiration for me ;)Title courtesy of bunn, mwahahha





	Flowers in his Mane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [funkytoes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/funkytoes/gifts).



He kissed her neck, slowly travelling from her collarbone up to the point just below her ear that made her gasp. His strong fingers teased her sides, wrapping around her waist when she tilted her head to the side with a light moan. She felt his smile, that soft beard tickling her skin as he pulled her back against his chest.

“My Queen,” he murmured, his deep voice rumbling through his chest and into her own, bringing his hands up to cup her breasts through her gown. “Lothíriel.”

Lothíriel smiled, turning her head to nip at his ear, pressing her arse back against him and enjoying the feel of his desire pressed against her. The hands at her breasts began undoing the front laces of her crimson gown, thumbing her nipples into hard peaks in passing. Lothíriel lifted her arms, pushing her hands into that wild tawny mane and sighed deeply.

“My Queen,” he murmured again, stoking the fire in her skin with his kisses. Lothíriel moaned softly.

“My Queen!” the low hiss changed in tone and pitch, breaking into her dream and pulling the young Queen of Rohan from the arms of her ardent husband.

Blinking her eyes open, Lothíriel stared blearily at the old woman who had been housekeeper in Meduseld since before anyone was like to remember; Frithuswith was an institution unto herself, and Lothíriel had learned to keep on her good side – even Kings and Queens were not exempt from the wrath of Frithuswith, Éomer had told her once, laughing but not entirely jesting.

“My Queen, you must get up,” Frithuswith said calmly, holding up thin robe; hardly useful against the chill spring breezes of Edoras, Lothíriel thought sleepily. She wished the housekeeper would leave; it was late enough that only something of the seriousness of an invasion by orcs was acceptable as a reason to wake her.

“What is it, Frithuswith?” she asked, still half-trapped in the dream she longed to return to, the heat between her legs a slow throb of desire. Éomer had been gone far too long, she decided.

“The King, my Queen,” Frithuswith replied, and those words were probably the only ones that would have made Lothíriel sit up in her bed, staring at the housekeeper with a mingling sensation of fear and excitement spreading through her body. “He is almost in Edoras, my Queen,” Frithuswith finished, and Lothíriel could have kissed the old woman. The housekeeper smiled knowingly, but she did not say a word, and so Lothíriel could pretend that her face was not so transparent in her longing.

Swinging her legs over the side of the wide bed – too wide, without Éomer’s bulk beside her – Lothíriel shivered at the feel of the cool flagstones against her bare feet. “How long?” she asked, accepting the robe that Frithuswith held out for her as evidence that she had to hurry; she was supposed to be present for the offering of the welcome cup, and there was no time to get properly dressed as befitted a Gondorian Princess. In truth, it was one of the things she adored most about her new homeland, this lack of reverence for ceremony at inopportune moments.

“Less than half an hour, my Queen,” Frithuswith replied, “the mead is already warming in the kitchens.”

Lothíriel nodded, wrapping the robe around herself and tying the knots swiftly, stuffing her feet into a pair of heeled slippers and running a brush through her unbound hair. “Thank you, Frithuswith. Could you see if there are some bannocks left from dinner for the men, as well? And send someone to the stables to stock the mangers.” Sliding a pair of combs into her hair to pull it back from her face, she was as ready as she would get this late in the night, watching the light in the East that presaged the Sun’s arrival in the sky. Rohan in summer was never completely dark, she had learned, the light skies of summer evenings only just beginning now, the end of spring all around her.

“Yes, my Queen,” Frithuswith bowed, and Lothíriel felt the warm approval radiating from her.

Many of the Rohirrim had expected her to emulate Queen Morwen, who had also hailed from Gondor, but they had been pleasantly surprised by their new Queen’s willingness to embrace Rohirric tradition; Lothíriel had learned quickly, studying the language and rich history of her new people. She was determined to be the Queen the Mark required, even if she had yet to fulfil her new people’s most ardent wish and conceived an heir.

 

Shivering in the cool night breeze, Lothíriel stood at the top of the steps leading up to Meduseld, listening to the fast clip-clop of hooves striking the cobbles as the Riders moved towards her, Éomer’s horsetail helmet recognisable in front of the group. She smiled.

Around her, serving girls were milling, each one armed with a tray of cups, filled with fragrant mulled mead to welcome their menfolk home; Frithuswith had woken those known to have sweethearts among the returning warriors, letting the rest of the household sleep the few hours remaining before the day’s work began.

 

“Westu hal, Éomer Cyning,” she said, feeling the smile break out on her face as she handed him the warm drink, the warmth of his smile stilling her shivers.

“Westu hal,” he replied, slinging back the mead like water and dismounting just as swiftly, “Lothíriel Queen.” Catching her up in his arms, he pressed one of those bristly kisses she loved so much against her mouth. Lothíriel laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck and tasted the mead straight from his lips.

“I missed you,” she whispered, giving him another kiss when he wrapped his cloak around her, surrounding her with the warmth she had missed in her bed earlier.

“I missed you, too,” he replied, nodding to someone over her shoulder.

The next thing Lothíriel knew, she was being carried across the threshold of the Great Hall and down the corridor leading to her bedroom, more than a few of the riders who were enjoying Frithuswith’s bannocks shouting remarks after their King that made him chuckle into her hair.

Lothíriel only pretended not to understand them.

 

Setting her down beyond the doorway of their bedroom, Éomer quickly divested himself of his armour while Lothíriel returned to her bed; the sheets had stayed slightly warm, but she still shivered from the cool breeze outside.

“I’m cold, Éomer,” she said, smiling lazily as she watched more and more of his skin be displayed. Éomer laughed.

“Perhaps you should have had the mead, not I?” he asked, giving her a cheeky smile that Lothíriel answered by lopping a decorative pillow at his head.

“Or, perhaps, you should come warm me,” she purred, still filled with the images of her dream and the fire it had sparked in her flesh. “Your warriors were very keen on suggestion, I heard.” At the foot of the bed, still wearing his breeches, Éomer swallowed, a light flush appearing in his cheeks.

“You’re getting very good at our tongue,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

“Are you going to follow their advice?” she asked in Rohirric, licking her lips. “ _Léona min?_ ” Untying the ribbons that kept her thin robe closed, she watched him follow each movement with his eyes, desire thrumming a current between them.

Discarding his breeches, Éomer crawled onto the bed naked, reaching out to undo the last ribbon himself. Sliding the robe down her shoulders, he kissed her skin softly, tracing a line from her throat to her shoulder and back, crossing her chest along the collar bone and repeating the journey on the other side of her neck. Lothíriel was pressed back into the soft pillow, sliding her arms out of their sleeves and wrapping them around his shoulders, pulling him down to lie on top of her. She liked feeling the weight of him, pressing her into the mattress.

“My Lothíriel,” Éomer whispered against her skin, stealing a kiss from her lips and pushing the blankets out of his way. “My Queen, my _love_.”

Lothíriel kissed him, feeling those calloused fingers sliding over her bare skin, taking in every inch of her as she lay bare beneath his gaze. Spreading her legs slightly was an invitation he did not hesitate to accept, kissing his way down her body, his tongue dipping into her navel both tickling and arousing somehow. Sighing, Lothíriel wrapped her hands in his hair, having found that they both enjoyed this act more than she had believed she would, and pressed his head a little lower, rewarding him with a soft moan when he obliged.

She thought she would never get enough of what his tongue did to her, delving through her most private area and opening her up like a flower, licking at her until she quivered with need, those strong hands wrapping around her thighs to hold her still as he wrung every ounce of pleasure of her body.

And then he did it again.

Finally, when she was lax and most assuredly warmed through, Éomer looked up at her, smiling her favourite smile, his beard glistening with her juices and those sea-blue eyes shining with love.

“I’m not sure that’s what they think of when they call you the Lion of Rohan,” she murmured, filled with languid pleasure and sunshine, her hands cupping her breasts and playing with her dark nipples almost absentmindedly. Éomer smiled.

“Lions have skilled tongues, I’m sure,” he pointed out, “and they are like cats, only bigger, so they, too, must like lapping at sweet cream…” He chuckled.

Looking down, it was clear that _this_ lion had enjoyed himself greatly, at least. Lothíriel laughed, tugging on his hair.

“You are very skilled, Éomer Cyning,” she agreed, kissing him slowly, sliding her tongue into his mouth and stealing a taste of herself, suckling on his tongue to make him groan and thrust against her. Wrapping her long legs around his hips brought them into glorious contact, making her hiss and nip at his ear when he slid himself through her folds. Éomer grinned down at her, teasing her with a few more passes until Lothíriel scowled playfully at him, smacking his shoulder and pressed her foot insistently against his arse. “Come to me, Éomer,” she asked, feeling the air driven out of her lungs in a sigh of pleasure when he did. That fullness that was so exquisite to her, feeling him tremble above her as his head came to rest against her collarbone for a moment of perfect stillness while they both basked in the feeling of that first thrust.

And then he pulled out of her, leaving her empty only until he returned, aiming for the places inside her that made her mewl and moan, clutch at him and raise her hips in time, wordlessly asking for more.

His hands, warm and solid, pleasingly rough against the soft skin of her breasts, his mouth, hot and wet, leaving small bruises along the column of her neck, making her cry out with pleasure when his teeth found the spot that made her writhe beneath him, wanting more, more, _more_.

Éomer’s thrusts were strong, powerful, enough to move her up the bed sometimes, a flurry of kisses scrambling her mind as he played her body, making every inch of her sing for him.

“Éomer!” she called, feeling almost overwhelmed, feeling the coil in her belly snap and white out the world until she felt nothing but pleasure, pleasure and Éomer, together, heard the way he groaned, holding still within her to feel the way she clenched him, hard, rhythmic.

For a moment of bliss, there was nothing but pleasure in her mind, and then he began moving again, extending her pleasure as he chased his own; his thrusts growing more erratic, his breath coming short and fast in her ear, broken moans of her name.

His hands held tight to her hips, her legs around his giving her leverage to meet him, mindlessly following the thread of desire spun between them.

Éomer groaned again, his hips stuttering against her in a well-known rhythm. Lothíriel turned her head, nipping at his ear and pushed him over the edge, feeling each explosion twist her spiral higher, her fingers buried between them moving erratically across her slick flesh until she exploded around him, milking every last bit of ardour from his body.

“Lothíriel,” he muttered, resting heavily on top of her. Lothíriel hummed sleepily, nuzzling against his neck. With a groan, he slipped from her, putting her legs back onto the mattress and pulling her into his side, yanking the blankets up around her shoulders.

Resting her head on Éomer’s strong shoulder, Lothíriel drifted off to sleep, feeling the soft kiss pressed against her forehead and smiling at the whispered words of love that followed.


End file.
